My Almost Cashmere Life: A Cautionary Tale

By Margy Adams

After thirty-four years of marriage, Margy Adams signs her final divorce papers, and immediately plunges into a guilt-ridden recovery. Not knowing how to deal with the shadows and shame of the past or three decades of loneliness and deceit, she looks for ways to move forward as a single woman.

She flounders until she enrolls in a writing c

• Language: English
• Publisher: PEGMAC
• Release date: Jul 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578851679

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Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction inspired by true events.

I am a Baby Boomer who was trapped between two worlds: a world of traditional values and an emerging, liberated world of too many choices. Coming of age in the turbulent Sixties, we ‘Boomers’ did not ask for starring roles in a twenty-four-hour lifetime movie, but fate hired us anyway. So many lifetimes fit into one, with no script and no rehearsals.

Like many Baby Boomers, I did not face life square-on, but was forced to by divorce after a lonely, thirty-four-year marriage. I began to write and write in search of answers and authenticity. In the process, I peeled back the layers and found me.

This fictional story inspired by true events is a cautionary tale, one that many Baby Boomers may relate to in some aspects of their lives. It is a story of loss and a bearing of scars. Through sharing, I’ve found that healing is possible and that hope perches in the soul.

In the end, we each have our own unique story. I invite you to take this journey with me.

Prologue

Oh, Say Can You See

Divorce brings about change tinged with sadness and relief...

As I sit dangling my feet in my fancy hot tub, I glimpse the crescent moon in the pitch-black sky. An American flag hangs at a forty-five-degree angle, fluttering peacefully in the front yard facing my new cul-de-sac.

Four years before, I climbed into the soothing, churning water of my old hot tub and glimpsed at the torn and tattered American flag, waving at a ninety-degree angle. The flag was split in half due to an arctic winter storm and ensuing cold winds. The stars and stripes were attached by a slender thread, allowing Old Glory to wave in unison.

As I slid my backside down into the rhythmic jets, I marveled at the familiar setting. Above me hovered the nightly constellation of stars. I sank deeper into the blue-lit water and glanced across the Green River at the houses that had completed my landscape for nearly thirty years. Many houses had been remodeled, adding lit pathways down to the river, yet one house directly across the narrow channel remained the same. The static house had a small television that remained aglow for twenty-four hours, so I found myself staring across the river every night just to know that life did have continuity—life did have some stability.

My life had taken a giant step forward with a final divorce decree, signed earlier that day. I met this monumental phase in my life with a mixture of relief and sadness: relief that the marathon dance of two strangers had finally ended, and the melancholic music with the angry refrain had been turned down, but sadness, that two lives wasted so much time figuring out the delicate dance of two partners. We needed not only lessons and practice, but also chemistry; the music needed to be more joyful—more harmonious.

For years, I had ridden an endless dark roller coaster of resentment, not braced for the bumpy ride. I clung steadfastly to denial and grabbed desperately at half-truths. At the end of the ride, I reached feverishly for revenge but, staggering out into the light of day, I began to seek forgiveness.

Diving deeper into the swirling water, I wanted to blame everything on my ex-husband, but that would be grossly unfair. As I came up for air, I acknowledged that I had been frozen inside, driven by fear and unable to speak the truth. My desire to stay in a loveless marriage enabled my husband to trample all over me. Vast loneliness enveloped and consumed me—and went untouched because it remained undisclosed. He had been as conflicted as I, and we walked on eggshells for years.

How I wish I had stood up to him and demanded honesty instead of running off to play tennis. How I wish I had demanded we seek help, instead of opening yet another bottle of red. How I wish I had spoken truths, instead of stifling and stuffing my feelings deep inside.

Convenient and trite rationale kept me trapped. I knew no other role than wife and mother; my parents were married for sixty years, so I assumed that marriage was forever, no matter what transpired—blah, blah, blah…

After thirteen miscarriages…

And the surrogate adoption of my oldest daughter and the birth of the smallest preemie ever to survive—both of which complicated and blessed our lives—I stayed.

And stayed…

And stayed.

The whys still haunt me.

Now, four years removed from the fog of divorce; I ponder. I twirl my toes in the warm comforting water surrounded by a well-manicured courtyard and a dream-like house. There are my two cats in the yard; life is not nearly so hard, so why in Hell do I have a need to walk into this writing class? Why can’t I leave well enough alone?

Maybe it’s because we’re all connected by the human condition of fate, and we hold a nagging need to share our stories in order to know we have lived. I believe life must be lived in forward motion, but life must also be understood from the rearview mirror. I have locked some drawers, sealed secrets tightly in the recesses of my mind, and now unlocking these drawers and digging through old files has become my arduous task.

As the Pulitzer Prize-winning author, my instructor, stood before us, he encouraged: If you don’t share or tell your story, it will be buried with you and in several generations, it will be forgotten.

That resonated with me and gave me the courage.

I am ready to climb nude into the churning waters of my new hot tub.

Part I

Chapter 1

The Deal

Fate hired me for a starring role in a ‘lifetime movie’...

I was in the teacher’s lounge during lunch when I received a phone call from my husband.

Hello?

Hon, I want to have children. He coughed like he had something caught in his throat. Can we discuss it over dinner tonight?

I was confused. This call came out of the blue. I had just suffered my eleventh miscarriage in six years, alone, in almost routine fashion. I knew he wanted children, but miscarriages were my department to be grieved privately. I knew he was sad, but he would never discuss his feelings. Even after nine years of marriage, he remained a mystery that I couldn’t unlock.

Caught off guard by the phone call, I wondered if he was having a sudden burst of empathy for our loss. Still unclear and a bit dazed and confused, I returned, like a robot, to my afternoon classes and took solace in the smiles of my seventh graders.

Balancing a take-out bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and a few sides of slaw and mashed potatoes, he barged in the door of our rambling ranch house.

Can we eat in the den? he asked. The den was a small room with a large fireplace, surrounded by shelves of books with room for one chair; not a place to eat. In the three years of living in our house, we had never once eaten there. I was even more confused than before.

He methodically proceeded to build a fire, while I dished up the food. He was acting so bizarre. The chicken didn’t need to be cut with a knife, but the air did.

Okay, I want to try to live with her, he blurted out.

What?! Who? I cried out in anguish. "Who is her? Who is this woman? When did all this happen? What are you talking about?" I was totally blindsided. He had been seeing another woman for months, maybe years, and I had no idea. We were so disconnected that we were living separate lives without realizing it.

And then, he began to rationalize as if presenting a lecture to his law students in his persuasive fashion. I didn’t mean to fall in love, it just happened. He took a bite of mashed potatoes and continued, Living with her is best for both of us; I need to see if things can work with her. I never meant to hurt you, but life must go on. Please give me some time.

I sat in stunned silence. I watched as the glowing embers died. I was so unprepared; I was an easily influenced student. There was no mention of his baby, just love; no mention of our lost babies, just life and that we must go on. As if I had committed a crime, he set conditions for our separation. He asked for understanding and privacy.

I should have dumped the coagulated gravy on his head.

The next morning, he was gone. It was just me and the two Siamese cats. I called my parents to tell them we were separated. I made excuses for him, explaining he wasn’t a bad man, just misguided. I carried on with my teaching and coaching, dragging home to an empty house every night. During the first few weeks, I unraveled the story and gleaned the truth.

My sister called a few days later. Alan had asked her to tell me his big secret: he and the other woman had a baby. I had no idea, but now things started making more sense. About a week before he left, I had come home after coaching a school basketball game, and he wasn’t home. I sat at our square oak dinner table in my usual chair, staring across at his empty chair, and I began to question. Where could he be? What am I missing? Turns out, he was in the hospital with the other woman, watching his baby being born. What a coward.

Two months later, he came home. He said he was sorry and that we could never talk about this again if I wanted to make our marriage work. The other woman was married, and her husband threatened to take the baby if she left him. Since he was her husband, he had full paternity rights. She chose her son over my husband, so I was the default woman.

Sadly, I acquiesced to his requests. I wanted children, and my baby clock was running out of time. Alarms rang loudly in my head. I could not start over, so I chose to stay with the one who brought me to the dance. Besides, I now had a bit of leverage because he had been rejected and wanted to protect his reputation. I could call his bluff because I knew the truth.

He was defeated. He agreed to explore different options, including adoption, if I agreed to never talk about the baby or her again.

It was a deal.

Chapter 2

Whenever a Door Shuts

Pioneers of a surrogate birth

As part of the grand bargain, my husband agreed to join me at an adoptive parents’ meeting. We found our way to the basement of an old church where other anxious thirty-something parents were seated on cold metal chairs, awaiting the speaker. Waiting wafted through the room like a sad, familiar song. Afraid to make eye contact with one another, couples stared down at their brochures, pretending to concentrate on the philosophy and criteria for adoption.

In the early eighties, the Adoption Aid Society in our area was the definitive decider of who got a healthy newborn, for they were the prominent adoption agency and could call all the shots. They would decide our fate and set the bar. We were at their mercy. Every prospective childless couple in that crowded church basement was keenly aware of the competition and the slim chance of being accepted.

When the speaker approached the podium, she could have said, All rise, and we would have jumped to our feet. As she droned on, however, my enthusiasm waned as I burrowed deeper into the brochure, fixating on all the impossible hoops we would have to jump through just to be put on a seven-year waiting list.

Even though the language was subtle, it was obvious that babies would be meted out to parents who had contributed most heavily to this Catholic charity, and who had agreed to raise their babies in a religious home. I glanced over at my agnostic husband, who sat passively with his head bowed. I knew the door had slammed shut on this option. We rode home in relative silence.

Whenever a door shuts… another one opens. That was my motto as I approached my doctors after having two more miscarriages. The fertility doctors wanted to help us. They wanted to solve the mystery of my inability to go beyond the first trimester.

Surely, not all thirteen fetuses had been defective, they surmised. There had to be a medical reason for my rejection of the developing embryo around the twelfth week. First and foremost, the doctors at the infertility clinic where I volunteered as a case study were research doctors and wished to advance science. That fact did not make them any less empathetic, but ultimately, I proved a curiosity.

Tests and theories were given as my medical records grew taller and taller, filling several binders. One theory was that my DNA was allergic to his DNA, and so my body rejected the union. Both of us submitted to a test for this and anxiously awaited the results. Nope, that didn’t fly. Another theory was that my fertility had been altered by living downwind from the Hanford Nuclear Reservation, the world’s first large-scale nuclear reactor of any kind. Hanford, contaminated by dangerous radioactive chemical slurry, affected a wide radius of communities.

My doctor theorized, Improbably, but possibly, your fertility was affected by Hanford.

Everyone had a theory, but no one had a solution. I felt hopeless.

I don’t feel I can do this anymore, I informed my doctor. I’m physically and emotionally done. I’m just so tired of being a medical guinea pig, and it seems like all the traditional paths are closed to us. Do you know of any alternatives? Can you help us, please?

The doctor handed me a card. I’m going to connect you to the Hollywood Hills Fertility Clinic. They’ve been successful with surrogate births.

What exactly is a surrogate? How does it work? I questioned as I slipped the card in my purse.

The clinic has been running for several years and is the premier surrogate clinic in California. You will be matched with a woman who will have a baby for you, using your husband’s sperm.

Thanks, Doctor John, that sounds promising. I left his office wondering what the future might bring, fearful of what Alan might say.

The next day, I called and a very gregarious lawyer, who ran the clinic, took my call. He was a great salesman for these hot new designer babies. It would be like the first match.com of baby mommas in today’s indelicate vernacular. Intrigued by his sales pitch, I made an intake appointment.

We flew to Los Angeles, rented a car, and drove down Sunset Boulevard to Century City where the clinic was located. When we arrived, Mr. Lawyer boomed a greeting with a hearty handshake. He gave us a spiel and a few words of encouragement, and then turned us over to the psychologist who professionally guided us through the process.

Margy and Alan, nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to working with you. She warmly clasped my hand. Follow me to my office. Sorry, it’s such a maze.

We wound through the hallway lined with Mr. Lawyer’s framed law degrees, accolades, and awards. Pictures of him with Hollywood’s celebrities peered at us as we walked by, kind of like walking by a Mona Lisa where the smile follows the viewer. He is enamored with himself and celebrity, I thought. Glad we’re working with her. He’s too slick.

We arrived at her small office, and she shut the door. Oh, my, what have we gotten ourselves into?

Before we fill out any forms or discuss this process, I want to stress an important point about our clinic. We’re not selling a baby.

Phew, it’s not an illegal operation.

Our surrogates receive compensation for their time and emotional commitment, period.

Are you the only surrogate clinic? I meekly asked. You came highly recommended by my doctors.

We are. In fact, we’re the center of surrogacy and very proud of our record thus far. Celebrities are starting to use our services. We’re very careful about who we accept into our program.

Oh, no, we’re too normal. We’ll never be accepted.

We love working with couples like you. It’s very rewarding. Are there any pressing questions before we start filling out these mountains of papers?

Alan spoke for both of us. I guess Margy and I have fears of rejection and concerns about the surrogate. She’ll be the biological mother of our baby, so…

Of course, that’s normal. Let me assure you that we have screened our prospective mothers and only accept them under certain conditions. They must already have a child or children and not want more. We’ve learned that a balance must be struck between wanting to altruistically produce a baby for a couple and wanting to do it solely for the money. It’s a two-year emotional and physical commitment. She paused, but then quickly noted, Our surrogates aren’t flaky. They have the backing of their families and can back-out for any reason. They’re required to take part in a support group, and they receive individual counseling.

They seem like angels to me. The money allotted for all that time and emotion seems like a pittance.

The requirements to be accepted as a surrogate helped alleviate some of our fears and opened our hearts and minds to the possibility. I’m going to show you to a conference room where you guys can discuss and process all of this before making a final decision.

For the first time in years, I felt like my husband and I were riding the same wave.